


Known, Loved

by msred



Series: Lessons [3]
Category: American (US) Actor RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Belonging, Developing Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Long-Distance Relationship, Surprises, Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:48:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27873302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msred/pseuds/msred
Summary: She’s never felt like this before. Not this this, like this exact moment in her car, but the bigger this, the more existential this.
Relationships: Chris Evans (Actor) & Original Female Character(s), Chris Evans (Actor)/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Lessons [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2019040
Comments: 14
Kudos: 36





	Known, Loved

**_October, 2019_ **

It had started on their first date. He’d told her to pick the pizza they ordered at dinner, so she chose one she thought he would like. _The more toppings the better, as far as I’m concerned_ , he’d said when she threw out pizza as a dinner option, not wanting him to think that she expected something extravagant for their date just because of who he is and what he does. So with his words in mind, she’d ordered the specialty, essentially a supreme on steroids, and before the server could walk away, he’d stopped her and told her to leave mushrooms off half. She just blinked at him as he smiled almost shyly back at her. She’d told him back in Boston, when she was letting him order for her before going to the theatre with her kids, that mushrooms were one of the few things she just wouldn’t eat. She hadn’t expected that to be anywhere near the forefront of his mind three weeks later as they sat across the table from one another in D.C.

Then, she’d gone to visit him at home later in June and stayed through the Fourth of July. She’d walked into the guest bathroom shortly after arriving (and before that whole separate rooms thing had flown out the window at the speed of light) and found the shower and vanity fully stocked with all manner of bath products in her favorite scent, something she’d mentioned to him only in passing one night on the phone. They weren’t the brand she typically used, but something much, much nicer that she would never have bought for herself.

Only a couple weeks after that, she’d met him in D.C. again, and unlike the first time, she _didn’t_ get her own hotel room outside of town. When they were checking in, the desk clerk told them their room number, and she’d tried not to cringe outwardly when the number started with ‘22.’ He couldn’t have seen her, the way they were standing, but before the young woman had even managed to put the key card into the coding machine, he’d said _Actually, is there any way we could get something on a lower floor?_ The clerk had stammered for a second before telling him that yes, they did have rooms available on lower floors, but they wouldn’t be as nice as the one he’d originally been assigned. He’d just smiled that smile of his and said _That’s okay,_ then, going a little sheepish, _It’s a heights thing._ She’d just nodded and finished their check-in process, giving them a room on the seventh floor instead. 

_You’re not scared of heights_ , She’d said as the elevator doors closed, thinking of the multiple times she knew he’d gone skydiving.

 _No,_ he’d said, curling a hand around her hip and drawing her closer until she was tucked under his arm and he could bend down to kiss the side of her head, _but you are_ . She’d just blinked up at him then and he’d shrugged. _The way you acted last time we were here about going into the Washington Monument, I just figured_. He’d figured very, very right.

The first week of school, he’d had coffee delivered to her between second and third periods every day, her exact order. She was pretty sure the secretary and the student office aide were sick of her by the time the week was over, but she didn’t care. And on October 1st, the first day each year that she’ll allow herself to drink one, regardless of how early they’re released, her first half-sweet pumpkin spice latte of the year was delivered to the school, also courtesy of him. 

Now, it’s the last Friday in October and her kids’ first theatre competition is tomorrow, and she’s heading out to her car in the near-dark after their final extended dress rehearsal. As she crosses the parking lot she can tell there’s something on the hood of her car, and she rolls her eyes because she figures some kid has tossed their jacket or hoodie there and forgotten it. When she gets closer though, it becomes clear that it’s not a hoodie. It’s a tissue paper wrapped bouquet of deep blue irises, lighter blue and pink hydrangeas, and white gardenias, a blue velvet ribbon tied around the ivory tissue and a card tucked under the bow. Unless these have ended up on her car by some kind of accident, she doesn’t need to read the card to know who they’re from. She doesn’t bother wondering how he got them there, just opens the back door of the car to toss in her school bag then picks up the flowers and cradles them to her chest, not touching the card until she’s settled into the driver’s seat with the overhead light switched on.

> _Hey Gorgeous -_
> 
> _I wish I could be there with you tomorrow, but I know you and the kids are going to be incredible. I know how hard you’ve all worked to make this show amazing, and anyone who’s not blown away must be either blind, deaf, or insane. Seriously, I know you’re not going to take any of the credit you deserve for how awesome your kids are going to be, and I know you’ll take all the blame for any tiny thing that goes wrong, so consider this me giving you just a small fraction of the credit you deserve. Can’t wait to hear your voice._

> _~Chris_

By the time she gets to the last sentence, she can barely read it because of the tears swimming in her eyes. She’s never felt like this before. Not _this_ this, like this exact moment in her car, but the bigger _this_ , the more existential _this_. She’s known Chris for roughly five and half months, been dating him, more or less, for just under five months, and they’ve been intimate and exclusive for about four (she’s pretty sure they’ve been exclusive since their first actual date - she knows she didn’t see anyone else in that time and she doesn’t think he did either - but they didn’t actually talk about it until her trip at the end of June), and she’s convinced he already knows her better than possibly anyone else ever has, in the ways that matter, anyway. 

There’s never been a moment since she met him, aside from being appropriately star-struck that first day, that she’s been anything other than comfortable with him, unafraid to tell him anything. And no matter what she tells him, she never feels judged. Even more than that, though, it’s the stuff she doesn’t tell him, at least not intentionally, not overtly, the stuff he just seems to _know_ because he listens, he pays attention to the little things she says and does, and the things she _doesn’t_ say or do. He knows her, and he gets her, and he sticks around anyway.

She’s never felt known like this, understood like this, supported like this. It’s overwhelming, honestly. She fingers the petal of an iris between her thumb and forefinger, brushes her palm over a cluster of hydrangeas, presses her nose into a gardenia. She blinks to dislodge the couple of tears that cling to her bottom lashes, leaves her eyes closed to concentrate on the feeling of the tears tracking down her cheeks. She read once that tears are the actual physical and chemical manifestation of the body letting out an overflow of emotion, and she wants to keep these particular emotions close for as long as possible, wants to remember exactly the way she feels right now, forever. It would break her heart to think that there might come a time when she has forgotten this feeling, when she takes it for granted. Because even as she tells herself she shouldn’t even think this, since he’s never said the words himself, she knows, she’s never felt _loved_ , like this.

She sets the flowers carefully into the passenger seat, trailing her fingers over the ribbon, then cranes around to dig her phone out of the tote bag in the back seat. Her hand trembles just the slightest bit as she pulls up his contact and taps the call button.

“Hey gorgeous,” his voice comes loud, clear, sure, across the line, the vocal embodiment of his card.

“I love you,” she blurts, then instantly deflates, her eyes falling closed and her chin falling to her chest. “Shit. I didn’t mean to say that,” she says a little more quietly.

"Oh,” he says quietly, feeling deflated in his own way. He drops onto his couch and sets the beer he’d just grabbed from the fridge on the end table. 

She doesn’t hear his response, doesn’t register it for what it is, anyway, still too caught up in her own head, her own emotions, her epiphany. “I _meant_ it,” she clarifies, “I just didn’t mean to say it like _that_.”

“Oh,” he says again, and he thinks she must be able to hear the relief in his voice because he hears her exhale. He’s relieved, of course, that she didn’t just blurt out those three words without meaning them, but it’s deeper than that. It’s just, well, he’s been waiting for this, in the most literal possible sense. Because he’s been wanting to say that exact thing to her for a while now, has felt it coming on for a long time but has known it for sure since the last time he was with her, at her place a little over a month ago. He hadn’t wanted to say it first, though - not out of some pride thing or anything like that, but because he knows he falls in love fast, and hard, and he was well aware from the moment he started feeling it that he probably got there before she did and he hadn’t wanted to pressure her. But now, she’s said it (and almost but not quite taken it back), it’s out there, and he wants to hear more. “What did you mean to say?”

“I meant to say,” she takes a deep breath, tries to steady herself as much as possible, kicks herself a little, mentally, for not planning this out before she called him. She’s gripping the steering wheel with the hand not white-knuckling the phone when she says, “I meant to say that you _know_ me. You know my coffee order and what I like on my pizza. You know my favorite flowers and that I’m afraid of heights, even though I never actually told you either of those things.” She presses her phone against her ear, against the side of her face, and draws her other hand slowly around the steering wheel. “You know how important my work is to me and that sometimes I throw myself in too deep, push myself too hard, until I’m cranky and emotionally spent and a little bit useless.” She feels a tear slide down her cheek and she doesn’t try to wipe it away. 

“You know about my anxiety and my occasional bouts of depression and my attention to detail that can verge on obsessive. You know about my kind of weird family situation and my mom’s slightly checkered past and bad decisions and how that has affected me and my relationships with all of them. You didn’t judge me, you _don’t_ judge me,” she’s crying in earnest again now, and she thinks these tears are probably a mess of chemicals, a mess of emotions, a whole range of things from how she feels about him, how happy and light she feels at _telling_ him how she feels about him, to the memories of all the relationships that had ended because they did judge, they did run - not because she wants those relationships back or because she mourns them, but because of what she put herself through trying to make some of them work. Mostly though, mostly it’s joy, gratitude, that this is where she is now, with him.

She surprises them both with a tearful laugh as more thoughts pop into her head. “You’ve seen me dance and sing to terrible 90s and 2000s pop while I cook and clean and you know that I prefer NSYNC over Backstreet Boys and that I claim not to like any of the female pop singers from that era but will still sing along every time. You have my gym schedule memorized. You know all these things about me, big and small, and you’re still here. And not just here, but supporting me and cheering me on and enabling me when I get a hair-brained idea to bake several dozen cookies for my theatre kids all by the next day.” She laughs again and he laughs with her. That had been a fun night. Long and exhausting and messy, but so, so fun. (And the clean-up, particularly of cookie dough and icing from body parts where those things don’t normally belong, had been a whole other kind of fun in itself.)

“There are a lot more reasons too, reasons that aren’t so selfish, but I just, I’m sitting here in my car with these amazing flowers and this card that says things far sweeter than I can possibly deserve, and all I can think about is that I _love_ you.” She wants to make sure he knows that she doesn’t _just_ love him because of the things he does for her, to tell him that she loves him because he’s such a big science nerd, because he’s head over heels in love with his dog, because he treats nature like a religion, because he’s so incredibly kind and respectful to everyone he meets, and because he creates and spreads joy like it’s his mission, the reason he was put on the earth. She wants to say all those things and then some, but she knows she’s probably already said more than he’s comfortable hearing at one time. She will tell him though, eventually, dropped in like sprinkles in their everyday conversation for as long as he’ll keep her around.

Chris is sitting on the other end of the line, roughly a thousand miles away, and at this point he’s crying a little bit too, fat, happy tears running slowly down his cheeks as he laughs and smiles along with her words. He sniffles once and clears his throat, running his free hand through his hair before letting it rest on the back of his neck. “I know how you take your coffee and your pizza because I pay attention to you when we’re together. That’s just what you do, when you enjoy someone’s company as much as I do yours.” He pauses for a second, still smiling, to let his words sink in. 

“I made an educated guess on the flowers. I know you like irises because of your sorority, I know that all your neighbors have rose bushes, but you have hydrangeas on either side of your front stoop, and I know you love gardenias because at first glance they look flimsy, delicate, but they can actually withstand pretty extreme southern heat and heavy summer thunderstorms, and most importantly, because no one really appreciates them until they’re right up close, close enough to realize how good they smell, which is what’s really most impressive about them.” He looks down at his lap, smiles to himself as he drops his hand to his thigh and drags his thumb over his knee. “I also know that you have no idea that when you say all that you’re basically describing yourself, delicate on the outside, always beautiful, but stronger than anyone knows, and only ever appreciated once people get close enough to see all the really amazing things about you that you don’t show the whole world.”

He hears her sniff and thinks she’s probably crying again. He doesn’t want to laugh at her expense, but he does, a little, because only his girl would start this whole thing and end up crying like she is. He doesn’t mind though, thinks it’s sweet, actually, and knowing how hard she tries to keep things under wraps, not let anything that she considers to be a ‘weakness’ or vulnerability show to others, it makes him feel good, a little proud, that she doesn’t do that with him. He goes on, resolved to make her feel exactly how she’d just made him feel - a little embarrassed at the overwhelming amount of praise and attention, sure, but cherished and loved and revered.

“I don’t just know how you feel about your work, I admire you for it, and I consider myself pretty damn lucky that it brought you into my life.” He chuckles quietly, “I _don’t_ actually have your gym schedule memorized, but I know how you thrive on routine, so early on, when you used to tell me when you were going to the gym or what you were doing that day, I knew that meant you were probably going to be doing that same thing on that day every week, so I wrote it down and I keep it on my fridge so I basically have your schedule there.” He feels himself blushing a little, he knows he might sound a little overbearing, a little like a stalker, almost, but he has his reasons. “I’m not crazy,” he tells her, “I just don’t want to call you while you’re in one of your classes or shortly before, because I know that if I do, you’ll end up skipping class to talk to me, and then you’ll feel guilty about it later.”

And this? This is exactly what she was talking about in the first place. Because he’s exactly right about everything he’s just said. And the last boyfriend she had not only referred to everything she did at the gym as “Zumba” (which she hasn’t actually done in years, hadn’t done for a while even when they were together), he also had no clue when she went and would get frustrated with her if she didn’t respond to his calls or texts while she was working out. She’s not sure she’s ever had anyone who just … pays attention, this way, makes her feel seen and valued and important. She never had a chance, she realizes, of not falling head over heels in love with this man. She lays her forearm across the top of the steering wheel and leans forward to drop her forehead onto her arm as she listens to him go on. It feels self-indulgent, self-centered, even, but she really wants to hear the rest.

He’s more than happy to indulge her, ready to go on like this all night, if necessary. He makes himself more comfortable on the couch. “And sweetheart, in case you still have any confusion about this, anxiety and depression do absolutely nothing to lessen how incredible you are. Oh, and when you love somebody, you don’t judge _them_ for anything their mom or their brother or anyone else has done. Though, to be clear, I don’t judge them either. Your mom did the best she could with the hand she was dealt, and she had to have been doing some things right, because look at you.” She’d told him early on about her family, which, while not terrible, was far less nuclear and traditional than his. It had been clear that she was a little embarrassed to tell him about her single mom with two kids by two different men, and while he understood that she was conditioned to feel that way based on past responses from other people, he hated that she expected that from him. He’s done his best since then to prove that not only does he not judge her, but he doesn’t judge her mom, either.

She knows, intellectually, that her mom’s relationship status (or lack thereof) with her father or her brother’s father doesn’t actually say anything about her. She also knows, as Chris pointed out, that it’s not like her mom is a bad person or anything. She’s just a lot for some people to handle (even Her, sometimes). Still, before Chris she always felt like she had to work up the courage to tell men in her life about her relationship with her mom, and why it was the way that it was, and that, oh yeah, if you ever meet her (because there had been only a couple who actually had, and that had been almost a decade ago), prepare yourself for her to be completely overbearing and in our business and not know when to shut up. Chris hasn’t met her mom (yet), but they’d been together once when she’d called and She’d been embarrassed beyond belief when her mom realized they were together and started talking about him, and them, so loudly that Chris could absolutely hear every word even as she moved the phone to her other side and pressed it to her ear. Her face and neck had been on fire when she finally got off the phone, but he’d just smiled and told her that it seemed like her mom really loved her and wanted her to be happy. She couldn’t have imagined a better reaction. Like she’d told him, it was just one more reason for her to love him.

“And finally,” he goes on, pulling her out of her head, “babe, I’m more than happy to do a million at home dance parties with you, all I ask is that you let me mix in some of my 80s jams here and there too.” She giggles, wiping her eyes with her sleeve and telling herself that there aren’t going to be any more tears. He smiles at the sound that’s become one of his absolute favorites over the past few months. “Because sweet girl, in case you missed this just now, I love you too. Somewhere along the line I fell in love with you because I’d been paying enough attention, and then it switched, became me paying attention because I love you.”

“Yeah?” she asks, not because she doesn’t believe him, but just because of how it makes her feel to hear it. Even sitting alone in her car in the dark school parking lot, she feels warm and cared for.

“Really?” he scoffs and his voice drops, like he knows she’s fishing and wants her to know that he knows. “Of course _yeah_ , troublemaker.”

She smiles so wide her cheeks hurt, squeezes her eyes closed, stomps her feet a little on the floorboard. She takes a deep breath and reaches across the console to finger the ribbon on the flowers again and her mood falls just slightly. “I’m sorry I didn’t wait,” she tells him. “To say it, I mean. I’m sorry I didn’t wait until we were actually together.”

Chris has to shake his head at her, and he thinks she probably hears him almost snort, he exhales so hard. “I’m not. I mean, god, I’d _love_ to be able to kiss you right now,” he lets his head fall back onto the couch cushions and runs his free hand over his hair, “but that’s always true, so. More than that, though, I’ve been at this place for a while and I’m just glad you finally caught up.” He chuckles under his breath when he hears an indignant little squeak come over the line. “This way, I get to spend the next three weeks hearing you say it, and then you’ll be up here and we’ll get to make up for the three weeks we lost getting to show it.”

“Oh,” she feels her face and her neck heat up and she presses her thighs together, “Chris -”

He smirks and repositions himself a little on the couch, sliding a little farther down the cushion and resting his free hand high on the inside of his thigh. “But I could always go ahead and tell you now _how_ I plan to show you, how I’d start by -”

“Chris stop!” She practically shrieks, her skin feeling like it’s on fire.

He blinks in surprise and his hand freezes where it is, on its way to palm himself gently over his jeans. “Oh, um, I’m sorry. I just thought,” he trails off for a second. “We haven’t, in a little while, and I just thought you might want -”

“No,” she takes a deep breath and shakes her head at herself. “I do want to, it’s not that, it’s just … I’m still in my car. At school,” she rushes to add when she hears him take a breath like he’s going to say something else.

“Oh,” he bolts upright. “Shit. I didn’t know. I figured you were home by now.”

“I would’ve been, but I got distracted, then I got emotional, then I called you. I didn’t want to wait.”

“Aw. Baby. You’re freaking precious, you know that, right?” She rolls her eyes, and it’s almost like he can see her, because he goes on as if she’d answered. “Okay, well, I’m gonna hang up now so you can drive home distraction-free. But call me when you get there, it can just be you letting me know you made it there safely, or we can continue our conversation, or … _whatever_.”

She bites her lip and shifts in the driver’s seat. “I will,” she promises, then adds, “as soon as I’m in bed. It’ll be quick, I don’t have anything else I need to do when I get home.”

He moans a little. “Yeah?” He pushes himself off the couch and sets about turning off the tv and grabbing his beer before he heads toward his own bedroom when he hears her hum in affirmation. He knows it’ll be a little while, but he doesn’t mind waiting. “Alright. I’ll wait for your call and we can pick up where we left off.”

“Definitely,” she tells him as she fishes for her keys where she’d dropped them into the seat with the flowers. “I love you.” She thinks he can probably hear the smile in her voice as she starts the car.

He lets out a moan that is less involuntary this time and more over-exaggerated, meant for her to hear clearly. “Say it again.”

She giggles before she does. “I love you.”

“I love you too. Now, hurry up and get home. But be safe. But don’t waste any time.”

“Gimme 20 minutes,” she answers, still laughing a little, “just enough time to get in the house and get out of my clothes. I think I’ll save the shower and cozy pajamas for after our conversation, and _whatever_.”

“Fuck,” he growls, “I love you, I’m hanging up on you now. Start driving.”

She rolls her eyes and laughs as the line goes dead, but she’s got the car in reverse before she even manages to get the phone into the cup holder.


End file.
